Tag Archive | Dreams

Too Much To Ask

Twenty years ago, I spent the summer before my senior year of college working with missionaries in Austria, after which I traveled to Heidelberg, Germany, where I studied for a semester at the university. God asked something of me during that time that has had a long-lasting impact on my life. It’s His question–and the results of my answer–that I wrote about in my entry to the Guideposts contest. I now share it with you. While it’s longer than my usual posts, I hope my story will encourage and maybe even challenge you in your own relationship with God.

***

Too Much To Ask

 

I cross my arms, my fingers digging into my biceps. “You’re joking, right, Lord?”

A valley unfolds down the slope before me, most of it in Austria, but a piece of it belongs to Germany. The grassy carpet rolls over the gentle hills, dotted with a house here, a barn there, a road winding along the edge of the mountains in the distance.

Since childhood, I’ve longed to take my place here in Europe. For the past three years of college, I’ve worked with that goal in mind; anticipated that sense of “home” in stepping upon foreign soil. And now God’s threatening to take it away?

My stomach twists and the ache grows in my heart.

I blame the missionary couple I’m staying with for the summer. Or maybe I blame their son, Josh. Maybe all three. They just had to tell me about Josh’s decision to pursue God instead of girls during his freshman year of college. Noble, right? More noble than I could have been as a frosh. I mean, I’m a good girl, but guys pose a definite distraction. Can you fault me? Trailing behind my dream of living in Europe is that of being a wife and stay-home mom—two roles that require a husband.

I’m hoping to find that husband in Europe. Preferably Germany, where I’ll be headed in a couple weeks’ time to study in Heidelberg.

“Yet You want me to date You instead?” I glare into the bright blue sky overhead. “For how long?”

Six months.

My jaw drops and tears bite my eyes. “That will take me all the way through February! I’ll have returned to the States by then.” I kick a clump of grass at my feet then turn from the view that had given me solace these last few weeks. “No way, God. You’re asking too much of me.”

***

Three days later, I’m still arguing with Him.

I’d like to pretend I hadn’t heard his voice, but you know what happens when you ignore God—you get swallowed by a whale.

What are you afraid of?

His gentle prodding comes as I push the mop across the dining room floorboards of the Schwaigmühle, a retreat house in northern Austria for family and church groups. Late morning sunlight slants through the windows, and I bat at the dust motes in the air with a scowl.

“I’m afraid this is going to kill any chances I have for finding my future husband.”

Don’t you trust Me?

The words ping my heart. Of course, I trust Him. But this is my love life we’re talking about. Sure, His mere breath put the universe in motion…and He orchestrated to perfection the fulfillment of history’s most prophesied events surrounding His Son…and He stands victorious already…and—

Okay, so He wouldn’t find a love life that hard to manage. Worse-case scenario, if I cross paths with my future husband during the months I’m dating God, He’ll arrange a meet-cute when I’m available again. Right?

“Fine, God.” Dirty water swirls in the bucket as I rewet the mop. “I still say You’re asking a lot, but I’m less PO’d now than I was before. Let’s do this.”

The next time I’m in Salzburg for my day off, I head to the little flea market, browse through the jewelry kiosks, and come away with a tiny purchase hugging my ring finger. The wedding band look-alike will remind me I’m “taken” for the next six months—and if it allows me a casual way to share my faith with others, so much the better.

***

Shortly thereafter, I leave Austria for Germany to meet up with the other American students in the Junior Year Abroad program. Some of them are seniors in college, like me. Plenty of cute guys abound, but a new peace resides in my chest rather than anxiety, and I enjoy getting to know them on a level that doesn’t include potential for romance. This is a type of freedom all its own. A God-given contentment.

I’m issued my living quarters and a smile spreads across my face. Rather than moving into a dorm room on the University campus, I’m given my own space in a large house along the Neckar River. My eyes widen when I behold the French doors in my room. Operational? You bet. And it leads to my own private balcony. Not only does it overlook the river right across the street, but I’ve got the perfect view of Schloss Heidelberg (the castle!) atop the hill on the opposite bank.

Best. Room. Ever.

One of the other American students, a lively girl named Vera, stays in a room above me in the renovated attic. We become fast friends and together end up exploring Germany’s culture and many of the surrounding towns.

Days stretch into weeks stretch into months. I hang out with God in the mornings, memorizing scripture and praying with more focus, and on Friday and Saturday nights, I spend time with either Vera and friends, or on a “date” with God. I journal. I listen. I bask in a calm and relief I’d never known in my previous boy-crazy state. My “wedding” ring draws questions, which lead to skeptical looks from some, but interest and further conversations from others. Snow starts falling by mid-October, almost two months earlier than my hometown in New England, and given I love the white stuff, I count it as another blessing.

I head to the local movie theater a few times, once to catch a German-made film and twice to watch movies from the US. In the darkened theater to view The Horse Whisperer, starring Robert Redford, I sit with mouth agape at the large-ness of the Montana landscape. That one state is easily the size of some smaller European countries.

The United States is huge. And beautiful. And I’m a citizen. My chest swells with…American pride? Weird.

At the same time, something else nudges its way beside my dream to live in Europe.

It’s small. Fragile. And stubborn.

A desire to see the American West for myself.

I nearly snort out loud.

Me? Visit Colorado? Wyoming? Utah? Me, the girl who’s spent as much time aching for Europe as she has spurning talk of cowboys and Stetsons and John Deere tractors?

Yeah, that’s asking too much, God.

***

I travel with the local Campus für Christus—Campus Crusades—for a weekend retreat, where we join other groups from nearby towns and universities. I’m the only American, which makes me intriguing for that reason alone, and I catch the eye of an über cute German guy. Boy-crazy me would have responded to his flirtations with some of my own, but I’m already taken…and he seems to be, as well, if the wary vibes I receive from the girl at his side are any indication. Instead of focusing on him, God-dating me focuses on befriending the girl and in an unspoken way, easing any anxieties she might have that I’m after her man. My heart is light. Happy. Complete.

Christmas break comes all too soon—and with it the realization that Germany/Europe might not factor into my future as much as I’d always believed. That silly American pride keeps growing, as well as that idea of maaaaybe taking a trip out West after I graduate. Don’t know what that will look like, but the fact I’m even considering crossing the Mississippi River is cause for celebration…or alarm.

Still wearing my ring and seeing no prospective German husband on the horizon (I never did get that sense of “home”), I return to the States in time for the New Year then head into my last semester of college. Funny—the guys at college don’t hold the same fascination for me as they once did.

February 28th arrives, marking the end to my six months. Such a small span of time, really, yet dating God has strengthened me with new insight and confidence where my future love life is concerned. I decide I’m done chasing boys. It’s beyond time they chased me, instead.

Too much to ask? Nah.

On March 1st, I slip off my ring. Tarnish and corrosion have begun to set in along the cheap metal (hello, penny-pinching college student here), but I tuck the ring among my costlier pieces of jewelry for safe-keeping and sentimental value.

Several days later, I return home to spend spring break with my parents. On Sunday, I greet friends at church I haven’t seen in ten months, lingering in the foyer to catch up on their news and share my own. As the first chords of the worship team signal a start to the service, I step into the sanctuary and glance around for my folks.

Instead, I see him.

Alone in the front row, eyes closed and face lifted as he sings, stands one of the pastor’s sons. A few years older than me, he and I barely ran in the same circles in the high school youth group. I don’t even remember his name. And is that…? My gaze zeroes in on his hands.

He’s holding a black Stetson.

Six months ago, I would have wrinkled my nose in disgust.

But God’s done strange things in me over the last few months, and there’s an even stranger tug on my heart. I wonder—

No! Ugh. I can’t make it one week after I stop dating God before my boy-crazies kick in!

And yet…

My gaze wanders back to the pastor’s son.

It’s Your call, Lord. I slide along the row of chairs to join my parents as my prayer slides upward to Heaven. I’m not doing the chasing. Help me be content and wait for Your timing. I want Your best for me, not what I think is the best. Help me be patient.

The familiar hymn we’re singing drifts about me in a hug, and with renewed determination, I shift my focus from the pastor’s son to the backlit wooden cross at the front of the sanctuary.

***

Alice Walker once wrote, “Time moves slowly but passes quickly.” In a few blinks of an eye, twenty years separate me from those months I dated God. Half my life. Yet, the older I get, the more I appreciate the silver lining in having chosen Him over guys:

Regret-free memories of an amazing time in my life, memories that sweeten with the passing years.

As opposed to the cringe-worthy, boy-focused flashbacks from my high school and college days, remembrances of my time in Germany only ever generate a smile. Never does the face of an ex-boyfriend or an unrequited crush get in the way to smudge the mental images. My recollections remain warm, airy, positive. And as I have yet to return to Germany, the ability to cherish that unique period in my life means more to me now as an adult than it did when I lived it.

That pastor’s son I noticed from a distance? Poor guy had to jump through hurdles when chasing me, but we got married in May of 2000, a year after I graduated college. Two years later, we ended up making that trip to the American West—and by “trip,” I mean “move.” First to Colorado for several months, then Nebraska for several years, then Montana…where, as I drove over the state border in a car laden with moving boxes and two sleeping toddlers, that long-anticipated word pulsed in my heart: Home.

I was coming “home” to a part of the country that used to make me cringe.

Ten years later, we’re still here.

Who would’ve guessed?

Not me. Never me.

But God knew.

He knew, and He beckoned me, and I’m grateful I listened. I still have a soft spot for Austria, Germany, and the German language, but I don’t regret where life—God—has taken me. With the benefit of hindsight, I can reflect on the last two decades and testify that He is faithful “to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us.” (Eph 3:20) All it requires is a little surrender on our part.

That’s not too much to ask, is it?

***

IMG_2142

On a hill overlooking Grossgmain, Austria. That is not a fake view. The grass really looks that amazing.

IMG_2145

In case you can’t read my writing, the pic on the left, taken from the Alte Brücke, is the view of the house in which I stayed. The pic on the right is a closeup of said house.

IMG_2146

Greetings from my balcony!

IMG_2149

Although this is a postcard, it’s pretty much spot-on as to the view I had from my balcony. I walked across that bridge, the Alte Brücke, every day to attend classes.

***

It’s difficult to convey the depth of emotion I had to struggle through during this time in my life, as I’d spent many a childhood and teenage night crying into my pillow, my heart physically aching, despairing I would never make it to Europe. And then to have that dream realized…only to discover the grass wasn’t greener on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean…. Sigh. Lots of feels.

Despite knowing I’m where God wants me, despite the contentment I feel here in Montana, there are still times when I tear up, thinking of what never was, a BA in German that was never used. But then I wonder if God has some plans yet to come in that area. Time will tell.

Has God ever asked you to surrender a dream over to Him? Maybe He then gave it back to You, merely wanting to make sure you were willing to put Him first. Or maybe He took it and gave you something even better in return. Or perhaps you’re going through such a situation now, and you have no clue how it’s going to turn out. If you have a story to share, I’d love to hear it in the comments. 🙂

Advertisements

I Dedicate This Book To…

book-1760998_1920The other week, I briefly mentioned I plan to give the proceeds of Tinsel in a Tangle to a ministry that helps restore physical and spiritual health to girls rescued from sex trafficking. [Update: The specific ministry I decided to donate to is called Agape International Missions. To learn more, visit them at agapewebsite.org.]

This week, I wanted to go into the details of why I came to that decision…but for some reason, this post has been a difficult one to write. I’ve already spent hours working on it and have restarted it many times. And each time, I’ve condensed it a little more, because really, it comes down to this: Over five years ago, God used a non-fiction book to alert me to a specific hurt in the world, soften my heart, and bring me to a place where, like Hannah dedicated her firstborn son to the Lord in 1 Samuel 1-2, I promised Him my first published book.

Why this particular ministry? If you’re looking for a grand link to my personal life, you won’t find one, save for the fact it hits close to one of my hot buttons: a passion for purity.

Contrary to the message today’s youth receive from Hollywood, books, and even schools, the act of sex has profound impacts on one’s mental, emotional, and physical health, and the careless way it’s handled in society is a grave misinterpretation of the truth. Our children are brainwashed into thinking so little of their bodies and the long-reaching consequences of sex, that younger and younger kids are partaking in what was meant to be a sacred expression of committed love between husband and wife alone.

There’s enough pain suffered among kids who feel pressured into sacrificing their virginity for a few minutes of pleasure, but for the sex traffic industry to forcefully subject a girl—or boy—to this abuse round after round, day after day, is pure evil. The devil laughs in the corner while the child suffers, and that gets my blood boiling.

cross-1517094_1920Yet God is a God of second chances. Of redemption and new life. And oftentimes He takes those issues and events the devil hopes will cripple us and He transforms them into beautiful testimonies that attest to His faithfulness, love, grace. How awesome would it be to give girls rescued from sex trafficking the help and opportunity needed to change their horrors into gleaming weapons forged against the enemy?

And right there, I think, is part of my problem in writing this post. Right there is part of why I’ve been inundated with ramped-up negative self-talk these past few months. The devil doesn’t want me to make my intentions known. He hates the fact I want to use my talents for God’s glory. He hates the fact that, despite the fears, vulnerabilities, and doubts with which he’s tried to shackle me, I’ve continued to press forward in writing. He hates that I’ve dedicated Tinsel to the Lord, and he’s intent on using my weaknesses against me to make me feel small and pathetic and worthless so I’ll hide behind my insecurities and let this book’s potential die unknown.

He’s trying. So. Hard.

And there are times I’m mentally too exhausted to fight back. But as I write this, I’m reminded that 2 Tim 1:7 says, “God hasn’t given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power and love, and self-discipline,” and I’m loathe to let the devil win this round when he’s already lost the war.

book-2363881_1920I would love you to partner with me in this. If you end up reading Tinsel in a Tangle and you enjoy it; if it gives you a chuckle and brightens your day, would you please spread the word among your friends and family? And maybe even consider leaving a review on Amazon? More and more these days, reviews are crucial in giving an author and his/her book exposure. On Amazon, in particular, once a book hits 50+ reviews, Amazon will circulate that title in its newsletters, giving it even further exposure.

My platform is small. I’ll be doing a cover reveal less than a month before my book releases (don’t be surprised if you see me in your inbox again this week). I have yet to send out ARCs or get book swag made (can’t exactly do those without a cover image). Marketing help is going to be on the slim side. In the publishing world, from the different articles I’ve read, this means Tinsel in a Tangle doesn’t stand much of a chance at succeeding; there’s certainly a lot stacked against it. But my Dad is the Creator of the Universe, and Scripture shows over and over again that He delights in revealing His power through impossible situations. I have no promise that He will choose to work that way in my situation, but I pray He will.

Whatever comes of this, I profess the words in Isaiah 25:1.

“O Lord, I will honor and praise your name, for you are my God. You do such wonderful things! You planned them long ago, and now you have accomplished them.”

Did You Call Me or Not?

Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to become a published author before the age of forty. Never did I expect that dream to be such a thorn in my side.

Having grown up in a Christian home and coming to faith in Christ at a young age, I’ve long understood that God has a purpose for my life. That He has a calling for each of His children, and while the general calling looks the same—spread the life-giving news of love, forgiveness, and saving grace found in a relationship with Jesus Christ—He asks us to live it out in countless ways according to the unique gifts and talents He’s given us.

meadow-680607_1920

 

Therein lay my problem. For over three decades, I have heard one story after another of writers feeling called by God to write, whether that was writing in general, or a specific book or series. But for me, I never felt called. I just knew I had a passion for it. On good days, I could write without worry, without second-guessing myself. On bad days, the doubts would creep in and I’d wonder if I was listening to my own selfish desires or if this passion was, in fact, from God. Oh, how I’ve wrestled with it. I’m sure you could find many posts on my blog under the “Writer’s Refuge” tab filled with my questioning, agonizing, pleading with the Lord to just tell me. Just tell me if You want me to write or not. I will give it up if You want me to.

Recently, one of my good friends and local writer buddies, Leah, started a new blog, justwriteinspire.com. Stoked for her, I visited the blog and clicked on the “About” page. The following is a little of what she had to say. (I’ve already shared this with her, so no worries I’m saying something that will hurt or offend her. 🙂 )

“While growing up, I never dreamed I would write. I wanted to be a singer and teacher–not an author.

“However…one day, a plot downloaded into my brain. I thought, someone should write that book. A year later, God planted an idea in my mind, ‘You write it.’ I fought the concept for years. I did not believe I could do it.

“God never gave up on me. He continued to whisper–over and over–‘You are a writer,’ until His words seeped, profoundly, into my heart and soul.”

~Leah, from justwriteinspire.com

At the time I read her words, the irony was not lost on me—how she had felt God’s calling in the area of writing when she hadn’t even been looking for it, while I had prayed for years and continued to question. But still, I smiled, genuinely happy for her.

Come the next day, dark thoughts had descended upon me, and I wasn’t smiling anymore.

I had planned to write that day after cleaning the bathrooms, but as I sprayed and scrubbed sinks and bathtubs, it occurred to me I didn’t have anything to write about. The characters in my two current WIPs weren’t talking, and I was plum out of ideas plot-wise. By the time I finished mopping the floors, I was a mental wreck. If I was supposed to write, why was it harder for me to make up stories than other writers? Maybe I was just fooling myself. Maybe I was a square peg trying to shove myself into a round hole.

So I cried. Hard. And I begged God to speak to me.

I. Needed. To. Know.

Did He want me to write or not?

In late March, I had been sharing my frustrations at Bible study about how my inner critic looks like Jesus, making it difficult for me to always know who’s talking: the critic or Jesus. Sitting beside me, one of my girlfriends promptly texted me this pic from Pinterest:

IMG_7022

I can’t begin to tell you how helpful it has been for me to see these differences written out so I can refer to them whenever I’m questioning the words inside my head. That day cleaning bathrooms, after reading how Leah had felt called to write her story, I remembered this picture and tried to reject the condemning, discouraging words rattling around inside my brain.

But I was weakening.

At last I fell across my bed, my chest aching in that deep way that makes you curl into a fetal position and sob from the core, sob without tears.

How?” I cried to God, glaring at the ceiling. “How can I fight these negative feelings about writing—how can I fight the devil’s lies and deceptions and attempts to bind me—when I don’t know if You want me to do this? How can I combat these attacks with Your promises if I don’t know You’re fighting with me in this area? I’ve wanted to write and be published since I was a kid. Have wanted to write to please You. So many others have felt called by You—why don’t I feel like You ever called me?”

I didn’t expect an answer right away. Hadn’t I pleaded with Him countless other times and received silence in return? Maybe if I kept an open mind and continued to lift up this specific prayer over the next several weeks, I’d recognize His answer…if it ever came.

But that day, God met me in my need, and almost before the question left my lips—“Why don’t I feel like You ever called me?”—a calm, comforting, gentle voice whispered to my spirit.

“Because it was what you already wanted to do. I didn’t have to call you onto a path you were already traveling.”

Oh.

Really?

In my case, yes, really.

And it makes me wonder if other believers can resonate with this.

Often in Christian circles, we get so focused on finding our purpose, finding our calling, our gifts, how we should edify the Church…but for the person who searches for that answer with a pure motive and comes up empty, this quest can be extremely frustrating and lead to feelings of inadequacy.

If that’s you…could it be you might already be on His path for you? Pray about it. Test it. Press into Him with an open heart. And be ready for when He answers.

Yes, I will still have bad days, moments when Negativity wants to tear me down and immobilize me. But now I can resist those thoughts and Satan’s attacks. Now I know writing is something God has called me to do.

And that dream of becoming a published author before the age of 40? Well, I signed a contract with my publisher a month before I turned forty, and my debut novel releases two months before I turn forty-one.

God’s timing is always perfect. And in this case, I’m thankful my timing wasn’t too far off. 😉

Signature

The Writer’s Desert

This past November, I traversed into new territory when I signed a publishing contract with Clean Reads. Setting my sights away from the sparkling, intoxicating metropolis of Accepted Manuscript, I ventured down an unfamiliar, inconspicuous path: The Second Book.

Funny thing about this path. The Second Book doesn’t take two authors in the same direction. Some find themselves in a thick jungle, wrapped in an overabundance of words, swathed in the heat of a luscious plot that can’t wait to be written. Others enter the succulent haven of a coffee shop, drawing inspiration from the lives unfolding around them, tears splashing onto plastic lids, laughter bubbling up toward the ceiling tiles.

Still others, alas, take a journey such as mine and step into the barren wasteland of the Writer’s Desert.desert-790640_1920

 

Unlike an earthly desert, it stays cold here even during the day; the sun might shine, but it emits no warmth. The dry ground remains firm beneath my feet, unforgiving in its hard surface, wicking away what little optimism I had armed myself with when I first started this journey.

I thought I was prepared for it. I had my laptop for communication—you know, for those several rounds of edits expected from my publisher, and for that finicky thing called a platform I need to spend time thinking about. But more importantly, I had a canteen of liquid words—others’ words—that were supposed to keep my writing muscles limber and supple until I reached the other side of this empty landscape. Serving as one of several judges on a few writing contests. Swallow. Involvement with an online critique group. Gulp. Offering my help as a beta reader for two different manuscripts. Sip, sip, sip.

But while my muscles stay quenched with others’ words, my soul has become parched at the lack of my own.

Sure, I’ve come across an oasis now and then. Broad ideas for a new story here; a one-paragraph summary for another story over there. Scenes for a sequel to my book that releases in October. But for the majority of the time, it’s just me and my canteen of somebody else’s work.

Oh, and the devil.

He likes to come alongside me at those times when I’m stumbling across the sand and taunt me. Tell me I don’t have what it takes, because other authors—better authors—are thriving in the jungle and there’s a reason I’m stuck in the desert. Better authors are on book #20 after eleven years of writing, and I’m on book #2 after seventeen. Better authors always have ideas cooking on the back burner, and since I don’t, that just reaffirms I lack what it takes to be successful in this field. Better authors have better blogs, more followers, a larger platform, a stronger backbone, a more persistent nature.

Sometimes Jesus is able to edge the devil out of my peripheral vision. For a few moments of time, maybe even as long as a day, I breathe in His clarity. He’ll take my hand in his and with the other, he’ll point to the horizon, and whisper, “Do you see it?”

sunset-1331088_1920

And with my flawed incompetence wrapped within His limitless capabilities, I glimpse something hazy on that horizon, something shimmering with promise and strength, purpose and fulfillment. And—

Then the devil shoves his snout in my face and I lose hold of my precious Jesus.

Why is Satan’s voice so much louder than my Lord’s?

Why does Hate have a better grip than Love? Why does self-deprecation feel more comfortable than self-confidence? Why are lies easier to believe than the truth?

The devil, I’ve come to realize, has been leading me in unnecessary circles to keep me floundering in this desert so I don’t gain the promise on that horizon. I reached a certain milestone despite his lies when I signed that publishing contract a few months ago, and he hates it. He knows my fundamental desire—once the selfishness and narcissism gets pushed aside—is to write for the Lord, whether that’s in the form of a Christmas fantasy or inspirational romance, so what better way to keep me from accomplishing anything further as a Christian writer than to blast my negative qualities on “repeat” in this desert that offers no diversion to silence the noise? Wallowing in negativity is a stronghold in which I practically have a doctorate, so long did I once study it.

Once. Several years ago. I’m not where I was several years ago, and the Lord certainly doesn’t want me making a U-turn to head back there.

So this time, I’m on to the devil. I’m on to his pranks, his condemnation and discouragement. It might have taken me a few months to slough through his deception, but better that than several years. I’m learning to tune him out again; to trust, instead, the voice of my precious Jesus, and to believe what He sees as good in me. I’m taking steps toward that shimmering horizon, and while I’m not there yet—I still have weeks of travel through these cold, hard-packed sands—the oases ahead of me look more abundant than those along the trail of my last four months.

I’m confident I’ll be filling my canteen with my own words soon.

Signature

Yellow Light

Yes.

No.

Wait.

When we go to God with a prayer request, we love to hear the first one, frown to hear the second one, but I think the most frustrating answer we receive sometimes is “Wait.”

Why, Lord?

For how long?

Pretty please, can’t I have [insert request here] now?

 

In the spring of 2015, Hubby and I found a track of land for sale in a gorgeous area of Jefferson County, about 20 minutes from Helena, MT. After prayerfully considering the risks, the pros and cons of purchasing the land, and the requirements that would go into creating our vision for the property*, we felt the Lord said, “Yes, purchase the land.” Yay! And yet…because of circumstances outside of our control, we didn’t close on the land until the very end of December. More than two months later than we were hoping to close.

IMG_3278.JPG

180 degree panoramic of our little slice of Montana.

 

“It’s okay,” Hubby kept reassuring me. “God’s got this. It’s all in His timing.”

Right. It was all good. We were still on target to building a new house on the land in the spring 2016, and getting the girls into a better, smaller school by the beginning of the 2016-17 school year.

Cut to April 2016, and still nothing had progressed. Well, baby steps, but nothing visible. Between work responsibilities and tax season, Hubby didn’t start making headway on our land project until May. We still held out hope we could start building a house in August and move into it halfway through the school year, so I was still going forward with the idea our girls would be switching schools. Thus, I wanted to find a rental property closer to the new school than where we were at the time, which meant the house needed to be put up for sale.

Then summer vacation came along, with an already-planned trip to MA in June to visit family. I was in no position to move before leaving for MA, and Hubby wasn’t about to move while the girls and I were in MA, so thoughts of putting the house on the market got bumped to late July.

Then August.

The first week in August for sure.

The goal came…and went. Still, I continued packing up the house, because I was determined to make the deadline of getting into a rental property before the start of the school year. For the sake of the girls’ education, right?

On August 10th, I called the realtor so we could sign papers and put the house on the market. We made an appointment to meet on Saturday, August 13th…but as Saturday drew closer, the more panicked Hubby and I became.

And then Hubby dropped the bomb Friday night: the builder had called earlier that day to say he couldn’t start on our house until March 2017.

Before you shake your head at our builder, bear in mind we hadn’t signed any papers, and building houses is his livelihood. We do not fault him for picking up other work. In fact, it reaffirmed what Hubby and I had begun to think ourselves—maybe we should wait until the spring to start building, since the land project was taking waaaay longer to finalize than we ever could have dreamed.

Of course, then my analytical side kicked in. Our original thinking in getting a rental had been to keep our girls from having to switch schools halfway through the year. But if we couldn’t start building a new house until March 2017, that was no longer a concern, since there was no way we’d be moving in until maybe late August next year. So…why were we working so hard to get out of our current house?

Huh.

Crap. Now what?

Pray.

So I called the realtor and postponed our meeting until the following weekend, leaving Hubby and I a week to come together in prayer each day and ask the Lord in which direction He wanted us to go. (Not that we weren’t praying on our own, but there’s something more potent about praying together.)

There were risks and fears either way we decided, but Hubby and I don’t like making decisions based off of fears, especially fears of the unknown, so in the end, based on what was before us, what was tangible, and knowing God was in our corner so we didn’t have to fear the unknown, we decided to…stay.

Sigh. Grumble grumble.

“Wait.”

That’s what we heard.

Wait on building the house.

Wait to put the girls in a different school.

Sit tight, focus on the other tasks at hand, and take this time to better prepare for the spring.

“Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.” Proverbs 19:21

During our week of prayer, my father-in-law had advised us not to move until we had complete peace about it. He echoed what I had been thinking. All the other times we’ve had to make big decisions, we’ve always had peace despite not knowing the end product or how insane our decision looked to others. Even when we bought the land, we had peace about the purchase. God had said, “Yes” to the land.

But apparently He’s saying, “Wait” before building our house on it.

The housing market is really good right now. Will it be better next year in the spring or summer…or worse? What will the economy look like next year after the November elections? What will the mortgage rates be? These are just a few of the things that were enticing us to sell now. Move now.

But God says wait. And He’s bigger than the economy or housing markets or mortgage rates. So despite any concerns for the future, despite any economist’s (or politician’s) projection on what 2017 will bring, our hope is in the Lord. He is our Rock. Our Sustainer. Our Comforter. It doesn’t necessarily mean circumstances will look better next year for selling our house, but we can rest in the knowledge we are currently staying on His path for our lives. And in the end, shouldn’t that be our goal?

Signature

*More on our vision for the property in a future post.

Childhood dreams

To start things off, I want to give a huge shout out and “Thank you!” to my gracious and multi-talented friend, Ashley Martin, for helping me set up this blog/website. She’s an amazing author with her own blog: http://www.lemonbiscuitcrumbs.com/. It’s worth a look-see, especially if you enjoy literary fun and a quirky sense of humor.

In my “About” page, I touch upon one of my childhood dreams of living in France and how God had other plans for me. I’ve had one more significant dream ever since I learned to read: I wanted to become a published author…before the age of 40. That dream has yet to come true. And while I still have a few more years to go before my self-imposed deadline, it’s the main reason why I’ve started this blog/website. I’m not sure where it’s going to go, or even where it’s supposed to go (God is slowly teaching me to think in terms of twenty-four-hour increments rather than twenty-four-day increments), but I’ve called it Scattered Whimsy to allow me the freedom to share some of the other projects I turn to when my writing goes south. Which it does. All too often.

So, welcome to a little piece of my world and be sure to pop back in every once in a while to see how I’m faring on this, my latest adventure.

~Laurie Germaine